Fire and Ice
by depplosion
Summary: Dylan cares for an injured Anthony. Takes place after the end of Full Throttle, and doesn't consider the extended scenes.
1. Chapter 1

Pale, bloodied hands gripped the steering wheel till the knuckles turned pink, then white. Their deathgrip on the leather was the only thing keeping them from shaking uncontrollably.The goddamn light really needed to turn green. Someone's life depended on it. Didn't it understand that? 

"Come on!!" Dylan let out a shout of exasperation that bordered on hysterical. She was starting to get really anxious. Her eyes flicked to the pale, thin man lying limply in the passenger's seat. He'd stirred slightly at the sound of her voice, which was good. It was great. It meant he had a fighting chance. Or at least, he would, if only the damned light would turn green. She was considering just flying through it and damning the consequenses, but she couldn't take the risk. She didn't give a damn about the police, it was just him that she was worried about.

Her teeth caught the fleshy red sponge of her lip between them in an expression of concern. She'd had reprecussions about sneaking the unconcious enemy-turned-ally away with her, but she'd reasoned that she'd never forgive herself if she just let him lay there in the alley to bleed to death next to Seamus. She felt a slight pang of something like regret when she'd seen her ex-boyfriend, his head at an angle that made life impossible, but there was nothing that could be done about him. They could come and take him away, zip him in a black bag and all that, but she couldn't let that happen to the other one. If she thought about that for too long, she would start crying, and she had to keep her head clear.

She'd pulled the thin blade from his chest with a sickening sound that, despite her frequent accquaintances with gorey situations, made her want to vomit. She knew that it would only make him bleed more, but she couldn't move him skewered like that. She'd been prepared for the gush of blood that soaked his jacket and her hands, but it didn't make her any less sick, or worried when it came pouring out, forming a thick, dark pool on the pavement. Fortunately, the blade had pierced him through the shoulder, a mere few inches away from his heart and lungs. He'd been lucky. How he'd survived the fall, she could only imagine. But then, he had survived both the car crash off the Golden Gate bridge and the explosion that she and her friends had only narrowly escaped, themselves. She supposed she shouldn't be surprised when she walked up and found him still breathing. But she was. Surprised and relieved.

He groaned when she moved him, and she found the noise comforting rather than disturbing. She knew it probably wasn't good to move him like this, that his back should stay level with his neck so that his spine, if it was severely injured, wouldn't go out of alignment. But she had no choice. She checked him as best she could, and when she was relatively confidant that neither his neck nor his back were broken, she gritted her teeth and lifted him as gently as possible.

He was heavier than his slight build would have suggested, but Dylan managed to get him into her car, employing a shirt that had been discarded into the backseat in a long-forgotten moment of wanton abandon to soak up the blood that was seeping slowly out of his back and onto the car seat. She had to get him to a hospital, and fast. Not only was his life at stake (which was, of course, the most important thing), but her friends would wonder where she was if she was gone for too long. They'd all gone back to their respective places of residence to change out of their grimy fighting gear and into something more glamourous for the premiere, planning on meeting back at the theater when they were finished. She wasn't much of one for primping, and they knew that. They would get suspicious if her absense was too lengthy.

Dylan looked over at the poor man, whose face and somehow managed to grow even whiter than usual. Her brows knitted together at the sight. It frightened her more than she could say. She didn't even know why, but she wanted so much for this man, this person who was practically a complete stranger, to not die. There was something...something she couldn't put her finger on. She had to keep him alive so that she could perhaps, one day, figure out what the hell it was, or it would drive her crazy.

When the light finally turned green, she pressed the gas pedal down as far as it would go, and silently prayed that she would make it to the hospital in time.

* * *

The blinding light of the hospital room vicously assaulted his eyes as soon as he opened them, and crushed his head in its cruel talons. He couldn't think, the pain was so intense. There was just the white light, all around him. He thought he was dying. He thought that this was surely the end. He gasped, coughing, dots of red appearing on his hospital gown. Someone stirred at his side, wiped his mouth, put a hand on his forehead. 

It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to keep his eyes open, to discover where he was. He wanted so badly to close them, to return to the blissful black oblivion that he'd just come out of, but he forced himself to stay alert. His eyes darted quickly around the room, taking in his surroundings. Hospital. Sterile, harsh, alien. He wished he'd just kept his eyes closed. At least he wasn't alone.

He wanted to start screaming. Everything hurt. The pain in his head was alternating between throbbing and stabbing, dull, sharp, dull, sharp. His breathing became heavy as he started to panic. His lungs felt like they were going to explode. How did he get here? A small paper cup was brought to his lips and he obediently sipped the cold water inside. He tasted only blood.

"Are you in pain?" the nurse at his bedside asked him.

He stared at her for a moment before nodding a little too eagerly, and his head screamed at him in protest. The nurse pressed a button that was connected to a tube that went into his arm.

"Just press that whenever you feel intense pain."

It was already beginning to take effect. He felt liquid, at ease, the pain quieting down to a weak throbbing, and gradually fading into numbness. This was better. But he was still afraid. At least the pain had let him know he was alive, but now that it was gone...how could he tell?

He realized that his hand had been balled into a tight fist for a long while. He unclenched it slowly, stiffly, and looked down to find a lock of strawberry-blonde hair laying in the palm of his hand. His eyes went wide and he felt his heart leap, almost painfully. The morphine couldn't reach him, there.

Slowly and shakily, he brought the golden strands up to his face and breathed their scent in as much as he could. Thank God, something familiar in this strange place. He ran it teasingly across his face, letting it ghost across his open lips and tickle his nose. He rubbed it against his cheeks, which were now wet with tears. _She _had brought him there. He would probably be dead if not for her, the Angel he'd kissed on the rooftop.

But now where was she? Why had she left him there? His eyes darted wildly around the room, hungry for some other evidence that she had been there. If she'd left her coat, or her purse, maybe she'd only just stepped out for a minute. But there was nothing but the silky strands of hair wrapped around his lithe fingers.

He had to get out of there, and back to her. He had to. He knew where she lived; he'd followed her home countless times. He was always watching her from the roof of the building next to hers, always wishing he could do more than just watch and want in the darkness. And then, on the roof, he'd finally worked up enough courage to do what he'd been wishing he could do, all along. He kissed her. The thought came into his head, she was right there, in his arms, and he finally did it. They'd just sort of come together. She didn't pull away. She received him rather warmly. He'd wanted to say something, to tell her, but he hadn't gotten the chance. He couldn't let her slip away, again.

He waited till the nurse had left him, then he disconnected his IVs, forced his legs to swing over the side of the bed, and grabbed the robe that was hanging on the wall. He rummaged in some drawers near the bed, his fingers stumbling through the collection of cotton swabs, gauze pads, bandages and oversized popsicle sticks until he found what he was looking for. He pocketed the syringe, removed the bag of painkiller from the IV, and tucked that in the robe pocket, as well. He had to shake his head to keep it clear. He was moving far too slowly. His limbs felt like lead weights. He could barely feel them making contact with the ground as he stumbled awkwardly forward. He wanted to close his eyes, to block out all the blurry shapes and distant noises and just sleep, but he couldn't. He had to do this. He couldn't stay here. But he couldn't walk. Tears of frustration began to brim his eyes, blurring his vision and burning his throat. He didn't know what to do. He twisted the lock of hair around his hand more tightly and brought it up to his cheek, drawing strength from it, reminding himself of the urgency of his mission. He had to get to her. He had to tell her...

* * *

Dylan brushed her hair with care. Her scalp still ached where her hair had been yanked out, nights earlier, first by him, then by herself. She'd felt terrible about having to leave him, like that, so she'd gritted her teeth and ripped out a little something for him to remember her by. She knew that would let him know what he needed to know, better than any written note or message left with the nurse. 

She hadn't been able to go see him, yet. Something was stopping her. She'd never liked hospitals, or visiting people in them. They were always so different, just laying there, doped up, moments from death, unable to remember who she was... She did not have good experiences with hospitals. She'd gotten the number of the hospital, and called every day, just to check on him, to see if he was alright. She didn't think she could handle it if he wasn't. What if he died? She didn't want to think about it. With all that had happened in the past week, her nerves were in no shape to take something like that. She knew that she should go see him. She felt like he was her responsibility, even though she knew it wasn't really true. She hadn't felt responsible for another human being in a very long time, and she was trying to keep it that way.

A loud buzz interrupted her thoughts and hair brushing. She put down her brush and cocked her head to the side, wondering who it was. The girls always called before they came over. She hadn't ordered anything. Who would it be?

She padded barefoot over the carpet to the door and pressed the "talk" button on the speaker. She hoped this wouldn't turn into something where things would get broken and she'd have to get all dirty. She'd just gotten out of the shower.

"Hello?" she asked, her fingers crossed that it was just one of the girls, or Bosley. "Who's there?"

She pressed the "listen" button, and all she could hear on the other end was static. Scowling and uncrossing her fingers, she tried again.

"Seriously, who is it?"

She listened again, and could hear the faint sound of laboured breathing, this time. She was just about to get really pissed and threaten to call the cops if whoever it was didn't fuck off when she caught the tiny, almost inaudible sound of her name being said in a whisper. She gasped, suddenly realizing she knew exactly who it was.

* * *

He spilled out of the wheelchair and into her arms as soon as she opened the door. His head lolled back against her chest and he looked up at her face. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was parted in surprise. 

"What are you doing here? Why aren't you at the hospital? How did you find me? Oh God..."

Questions cascaded out of her mouth in a stream of unintelligable noise as she dragged him into the elevator, taking care to avoid contact with his injured shoulder. The muscles in his arms burned and his hands were sore from propelling himself all the way from the hospital to her apartment. Thankfully, it hand't been too far, raw need and desperation acting in lieu of the strength necessary to maneuver the wheelchair. He needed more morphine, but they were moving again before he could say anything.

She laid him gently on the futon mattress sitting in the corner of the room. He heard the click of the door, much louder in his head than it really was, and then a rustling as she knelt beside him. It sounded like she was crying, but he couldn't see her. He was slipping. He fumbled for the syringe and the bag of liquid is his pocket and holded them out to her, his hands shaking. There were a few moments of silence and stillness, and then he felt the needle piercing his skin, entering his vein, felt the liquid spreading through his body. A soft moan escaped his chapped lips as the pain dissipated. He felt warm and safe knowing she was there, watching over him. This was where he needed to be, not that hospital. Here, he could sleep soundly, breathing her smell, all around him.

His eyelids fluttered closed and he finally succumbed to the exhaustion that had been threatening to envelop him since he'd left the hospital. She whispered his name and brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes, but he didn't hear her or feel it. He didn't hear or feel anything, and he didn't mind.

* * *

"Anthony..." 

There wasn't any pain. He'd transcended above something so trite, so easily described as physical, human pain. He may have felt pain, if he'd been able to feel anything, at all. He was barely aware of his position, flat on his back, under a blanket, the occassional damp cloth swabbing his pale face. He faded in an out, flickering like a low flame, threatening to go out at any second, but always brought back by that Voice, that angel whisper.

He gave no thought to where he was, or who was speaking, or even if the Voice was real. He didn't move or think, or scarcely breathe for hours and hours. It had been nothing but blackness for longer than he could remember. Blackness, breif blurry images, dark shapes framed by a bright light, hushed voices, smells, both familiar and not. Fragrences that frustrated him, spiralling out of olfactory reach as soon as they'd wafted past his nostrils, filling him with that sense of longing, that feeling of "I can never get enough" that he so often associated with Dylan. Before these things registered in his brain, before he could piece these fractured bits of information together, the nothingness swallowed him, and he had no choice but to surrender.

As time passed, the nothingness let up bit by bit, and he began to dream. His dreams were both terrible and wonderful. He dreamed about things that had been and things that never happened. Things that he'd wanted to happen and couldn't bring into being, no matter how he'd tried, and things that already had come to pass, but that he could not prevent.

"Anthony..."

The Voice came back to him, came breaking through the dark fog of his nightmares like golden rays of the sun, warming the coldest and darkest corners of his mind with its unseen brilliance. This sound, and it alone, was bringing him out of it, out of himself, out of the clutches of death and the lingering threads of morphine that held him suspended between asleep and awake.

Now the nothingness was almost completely gone, and he'd begun to get more curious about the owner of this Voice. It was more than just a voice, but he couldn't put the pieces together in his bruised mind. But now that the numbness had given way to something more tangible, something more real and believable, the usual questions had begun to form in the back of his mind, and eventually, to burn his tongue. Words rarely did that to him. Nothing ever seemed so important to him. Nothing ever felt like it was deserving of vocalization. He always found some other way to express himself, if he found it absoultely necessary to do so, which he usually did not, at all. Words were so passe. Silence was so much more effective. But it would not serve him, now. Now, as he lay prostrate, confused, half-alive, words were the only thing that had been keeping him there. He prepared to speak, but his throat constricted, and instead of words, he errupted into a fit of violent coughing. He felt a calming warmth daubing his mouth, then his forehead. He swallowed, and the urge to cough was gone, along with the urge to speak.

He realized that his eyes were still closed, and that he was too afraid to open them. What if there really was no one there, and all this time, the Voice had been a figment of his imagination? What if it was just his malfunctioning brain playing back the kind voice of one of the nuns that cared for him as a boy; some of the only kind voices he'd ever heard? What if he opened his eyes and he was alone? He didn't know if he could cope with that, not now. But if he didn't open his eyes, he would never know...

He cracked open his eyes, blinking as they adjusted to the light, which was dim, but still achingly bright in contrast to the everlasting blackness that there had been. There was a dark shape interruping the yellow glow, but he couldn't discern who or what it was. It made him a little nervous, but he couldn't do anything about it. He shivered, automatically intimidated by how oppressingly near it was, how indistinguishable its features were, despite its obvious nearness. He could feel its warmth, smell its scent. It was that which saved him from panic. He swallowed. There was this heavy, dry feeling in his throat and extending down into his lungs. It was as if all this time, he'd been wanting to drink water, and had been smoking one cigarette after another, instead.

Finally, the dark shape that was hovering over him, the owner of the voice that had been calling him, came into some semblance of focus.

Dylan. He remembered, now. He'd stolen some morphine and a wheelchair from the hospital and escaped to her apartment. And now he was here, with her. He was so relieved, he could have wept.

He reached up with a trembling hand to touch her hair, which was hanging down around her face in long, soft waves. She smiled and touched his face. Her hand was warm. He closed his eyes and sighed. He was so happy. He couldn't remember being this happy in a long time. But he couldn't stay awake.

Dylan frowned as his hand slipped down and landed with a small thump on his chest as he passed out again. He'd been going in and out of concsiousness for the better part of the night. She threw a glance over her shoulder at the clock on the wall. 2:30. She was glad she didn't have to get up early for anything, tomorrow.

She was getting tired, but she wouldn't dare leave his side to retreat to her own bed. She simply put aside the washcloth, cup of water that he hadn't touched, the remaining morphine and the syringe, and laid down beside him. She snuggled up to him as best she could without causing him discomfort. He looked so different in the hospital garb, his hair coming un-gelled and hanging limply in his too-pale face. He was about as suave as a dishrag, at this point, but he was still somehow attractive. Aside from always falling for the bad guy, Dylan had also been partial to lost puppies, and the look he'd given her when he opened his eyes that last time definitely fell under the lost puppy category.

She sighed and kissed his shoulder lightly. He was going to be alright. She was going to take good care of him.

* * *

Dylan awoke to the startling sound of high-pitched screaming. It took her a few moments to slip out of sleep and wake up enough to realize that the terrible shrieks weren't the stuff of nightmares, but were actually coming from the man laying next to her. She kicked herself for falling so deeply asleep. 

"Shh, shh, it's okay," she said in a hushed voice, stroking his face lightly. His pale blue eyes were wide open and tinged with red, his mouth was opening and closing like a fish who was trying to breath above water. Cold sweat poured from his forehead and soaked the pillow his head rested on. She placed both hands on the sides of his face and willed him to look at her. It took a few moments, but it eventually quieted him. She leaned forward, very slowly, and placed a tender kiss on his clammy forehead.

"What do you need, Anthony?"

He stared at her with that same lost puppy look from before, as though he were begging her to pull the answer from his brain so that he wouldn't have to speak. He gestured limply to where the morphine and syringe lay, beside the cup of water. It wasn't clear which he wanted, so she picked up the syringe, first.

"This? Is this it?"

He nodded, but gestured again in the same place.

"This, too?" she asked, picking up the cup. Again, he nodded. She lifted his head very gently from the pillow and brought the cup to his lips so that he could drink.

The water was room temperature by now, but he didn't care. His throat was so dry, he would have swallowed anything if it would have made it better. The water broke upon it like rain on a cracked desert. It felt wonderful. Now, he had only his pain to reckon with. Thank God he'd thought to filch the morphine. He was no stranger to pain, but this was much too intense to try and endure without the aide of some kind of painkiller. He couldn't ask for much better than morphine.

There was a prick at his skin as the needle broke through it, followed by the familiar rush of warmth throughout his broken body. When the rush of uphoria had passed, he opened his eyes and saw Dylan looking down at him, a look of warmth in her eyes that reached deeper inside him than the morphine could. He nodded his thanks and took her hand in his, squeezing it gently. He should probably tell her, now, while he was still awake, while he had her undivided attention, while he could still think mostly clearly. He licked his lips to wet them and opened his mouth, but the words never came. She leaned forward slighty in obvious anticpation, but she was never rewarded with the sound of his voice, only a frustrated sigh that escaped his lips at his faliure to launch the sentence he'd meant to utter up on the roof. She sighed, as well, and he felt even worse. She must have been able to tell, because she leaned over, placed the hand that he wasn't holding on his cheek, and kissed him on the lips.

Her lips were so warm, so full of life. Kissing her was like drinking warm, sweet cider. Its heat passed through his lips, trickled down his throat and spread all throughout his limbs and various other extremities, making him pleasantly tingly, all over.

She felt like she was kissing a corpse. It was oddly arousing. She didn't pull away from the icy mouth that had glued itself to hers. Instead, she leaned into the kiss, heating it up, chasing the cold away with her passion as it fused with his. She squeezed his hand tightly, suddenly wanting nothing more than to throw herself on top of him, but knowing that it would break him. Now, she had a new incentive to nurse him back to health. She couldn't wait.

_ To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 3

**Due to the rather raunchy content of the second chapter, I was unable to lawfully submit it here, so I have provided you with a link to it (don't forget to omit the spaces!):**

http://community. livejournal. com/crispinglover /278084.html#cutid1

Anthony listened to Dylan gabbing and giggling on the phone with an odd mixture of irritation and curiosity. He could hear her semi-clearly from where he stood rigidly on the fire escape, smoking and watching the traffic below. He wasn't half so high up as he had been that night on the roof, yet if he looked down directly below him for too long, he got spooked, got dizzy, and had to stop. He'd never had a real problem with heights till that nasty fall. His back ached at the memory. His knuckles were white as he gripped the thin metal railing of the fire escape.

His ears prickled as he sensed that Dylan was talking about him. She didn't say his name, nor the epithet the Angels had given him before they knew he had a proper name. Anthony wasn't his real name, anyway. He supposed Creepy Thin Man was as good a name as any, but Dylan insisted on using the alias the nuns had given him. He appreciated the gesture, and it was obviously more convenient to say, less absurd...but not when one thought about it. Creepy Thin Man was much closer to an accurate description of himself than his namesake. A Saint. He scoffed and took another long drag from his cigarette, half wishing he could hear exactly what Dylan was saying, half wishing he could ignore the conversation, altogether.

He was confused, and it made him uneasy. Once the initial mindless bliss had begun to dissipate, other less pleasant emotions had begun to take its place, and there was nothing he could do to stop them. Any previous intimate encounters that he'd had were shadowed mockeries of this one. Flings. One-night stands. Part of the plan. They never really involved any emotion on either end, or if they did, they weren't supposed to, and Anthony tried very hard to stifle it. To channel it into something else, something more productive. He'd spent so long training himself not to feel, that trying to undo all of it, even with Dylan's help, was a task he wasn't sure he could accomplish. It wasn't like fighting, cold and calculated, straight and to the point. That was all he'd known for as far back as he could remember. Anything beyond that was clouded in black smoke and hollow screams. Impenitrable, save for sometimes in his dreams. His nightmares. The smell of burning hair, the sound of frightened cries, anguished screams. His family's, his friends, his own. He forced himself to forget, and if the memories threatened to resurface, like sour bile, he pushed them back, swallowed it down, though it left a bad taste in his mouth.

He'd asked himself, asked God, countless times iWhy/i? Why had he been the only one to survive. He who'd been the cause of the tragedy. He'd never really found an answer. Just kill, kill, kill. That's what he was good at. Become the Angel of Death. Bury your sorrow like the blade in the flesh of your enemies. Slash away at the painful memories with your sharpened metal. Inflict your silent pain on others.

Perhaps he really was a fighter, not a lover. He didn't know how to love when it came right down to it. What did she expect of him, anyway? He could feel things for her, things that he didn't think he was capable of feeling at this point in his life. She'd ignited a fire within his cold heart that he couldn't ignore, couldn't extinguish. He only wanted to feed it, but he was afraid. Afraid of the fire every bit as much as the small boy had been. In the cold dark, it was safe. He was the most dangerous thing there. He ruled it. Nothing could touch him. But she'd brought him out of it, into the harsh bright of day, and he was naked and vulnerable in it. She may have been able to bring him out of the darkness, but she hadn't succeeded in bringing the darkness out of him.

He wanted to love her. He wanted to simply ibe/i with her. Have a relationship. Things that "normal" people did; people whose lives hadn't gone up in flames when they were seven, people who hadn't spent their childhood in an orphanage run by kindly but clueless nuns, people who didn't make spilling blood their profession. She was making him regret, making him feel, making him iwant/i, and he didn't like it.

She deserved better than he could give her. She deserved someone as loving and open and easy-going as she was. She didn't need his confusion, his silence, his coldness. He knew they'd only been together for a short while, and that perhaps in time, things might improve. As it was, he was surprised at himself, never having thought he'd be doing some of the things he'd done. But would she be patient enough for him? Would she eventually just lose her patience with him and tell him to get lost? He didn't know if he could bear it, should that happen.

He ground out his cigarette angrily on the thin metal rail and lit another. He was enjoying poisoning himself, reveling in the black, scratchy feeling every time he inhaled. Delciously self-destructive.

"But you're not going to tell me who?" Natalie's voice all but whined through the phone.

* * *

"Let's just say..." Dylan began, her eyes darting about conspiratorally, as though she were about to reveal some major secret. They flicked to where her lover stood in the open doorway, a fair distance away from where she was perched on the kitchen counter, legs crossed, absently peeling the label from an empty soda bottle. She lowered her voice to nearly a whisper so that he wouldn't hear. "...he's the Patron Saint of Oral Sex."

Both girls errupted into girlish giggles, but Natalie's curiosity still wasn't satisfied.

"C'mon, Dylan, you're being ridiculous. Alex and I have to meet this guy. See if he's right for you. We don't want you to end up with another psycho or loser. We're just trying to look out for you."

"I know, and I appreciate it..." Dylan wasn't one hundred percent convinced, herself, that Anthony was "the right guy" for her. She wanted more than anything to believe it, but it was getting harder now that harsh reality had begun to break through the fluffy white clouds of romance they'd been floating on. He was better in most ways than her past boyfriends, but...he was so idifferent/i. His eccentricities were a little difficult to work around, though she wouldn't really have him any other way. She was incredibly attracted to him, to the mystery of his being. She knew that if she got him talking, got him to open up, all that would go away. It would ruin him in a way. Disspell the mystery. Would she lose interest? Would she get bored with him if he gradually became more conventional? Less Creepy Thin Man and more Anthony? She didn't think so, but the ice was thin and she didn't want to risk it cracking beneath her feet, so she simply avoided it.

"Wait, did you say iSaint/i?" Natalie asked after a beat. Dylan bit her lip. Apparently Natalie had just had one of her famous epiphanies.

"I did."

"Oh my God, Dylan...you don't mean...Saint iAnthony/i??"

Dylan was silent as she tried to decide how to respond, but the silence spoke for her.

"I thought he was dead!"

"No..." she sighed, preparing to finally let the cat out of the bag. "Before the premiere, I found him in the alley and took him to the hospital, and a few days later he came and found me, and has been staying with me ever since."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"No, honestly. But...well, we know he's not a ibad guy/i. He was only working under Knox's orders when he was trying to kill us."

"I suppose, but still. He may not be bad, but...is he igood/i?"

"Haha, how do you mean, exactly?" she asked, a note of mischeif in her voice.

"You know what I mean. Just be careful, okay? I don't want you getting hurt."

"Don't worry, Nat. I can take care of myself."

Once she'd gotten off the phone with Natalie, she felt as though a slight weight had been lifted. She'd been keeping Anthony a secret all this time, and she'd been kind of hoping that Natalie would catch on. That girl didn't always seem very bright, but she was actually quite intuitive, and very good with subtlety.

Dylan walked over to where Anthony stood on the fire escape, the light breeze ruffling his un-gelled hair and carrying the swirls of blue-grey smoke from his cigarette into wispy nothingness.

"How are you?" she asked, wrapping her arms around his slim waist and squeezing gently. He turned his head slightly towards her and nodded, not wishing to appear impolite, though he really wasn't in the mood for conversation, or at least his version of it. But if he didn't do something, it would only worry her, and she would only press him. He preferred not to deal with that.

Dylan nuzzled his strong back. He'd been rather distant over the past few days, and Dylan wished he would tell her why. She'd coaxed a few words out of him, both verbal and written, but she could tell that, for whatever reason, he prefered to be silent and mysterious as the night, even in his lovemaking. Sometimes he sighed, very rarely made a sound like grunting, and once he'd even moaned, but that was it. She wasn't really surprised, as most men tended to be rather quiet during sex, but that didn't lessen her disappointment. For some reason, it was the woman's job to make all the noise, turn the man on, let him know that what he was doing felt good. It was sexist. Unfair.

Dylan found herself pouting at the thought and stopped, not wishing to be unhappy on a beautiful day such as it was.

"Do you want to go out, today?" she asked. They hadn't yet left the apartment together. She'd gone out a few times to run errands, but Charlie hadn't called her back to work yet, and she didn't want to leave Anthony alone for too long. She was sure he could handle it, having spent much of his life alone, or so she assumed. It wasn't that she didn't trust him, either. She just preferred to be with him whenever possible. But now he was being all cold and stand-offish. She tried like hell not to, but she couldn't help but wonder if it was something she'd done. She wanted to ask, but she didn't bother. He'd probably just shake his head and avert his icy gaze, staring off into nothingness like he always did when he got like this.

He gave his head a sharp shake "no". There was nothing for him, out there. All that mattered to him in the entire world was there, her soft arms holding him from behind. He softened against her, letting his tense muscles relax a bit. He took a deep breath of fresh air and exhaled slowly. He sent his spent cigarette sailing over the side of the railing and turned to face Dylan. He forced himself to meet her gaze, look deep into her eyes, let her warmth consume him. Feel something. He couldn't help but feel when he looked at her. He could tell that his silence unnerved her, made her wonder, made her think too much. He was sorry for that, but there was nothing to be done about it. If she wanted him, she would just have to get used to it. He was willing to change a little. He couldn't help it, really. But anything more than a little was asking too much, and she had to respect that.

"Are you feeling okay?" He nodded, placed a hand on the slope of her hip, stroked it lightly with his thumb, his movements staccato and uncertain. The fabric of her shirt was thin and soft, pleasant to touch. He concentrated on it, trying to relax, to allow a moment to creep up on them, swallow them warmly up.

"Nothing hurts?" He shook his head no, though it wasn't the whole truth. But he couldn't tell her how he ached.

"Kiss me?" she said with a smile and a pretty little sparkle in her eyes that made it impossible to refuse. He obliged with mixed feelings, slightly stiff and dispassionate in his affections, and hating himself for it.

She broke the kiss, unable to bear how not-there he was. His kiss was even more cadaverous than it had been when he was near death.

"Need more time to yourself?" she asked, feeling like their relationship was an endless procession of questions on her end, and vague, silent answers on his. Nod yes. Shake no. Shrug maybe, or I don't know. Sometimes, nothing at all.

He nodded, an injured look suddenly coming over his angular features. He didn't really iwant/i to be alone, but he felt smothered, and solitude seemed like the only answer. He wasn't used to it, someone always being around. He didn't really dislike it, and she made him feel truly wanted. Loved, even. But they'd been moving rather fast, and now, he just needed her to give him some space. He needed to breathe, to think, to come to terms with what was happening inside of him. To decide if he was going to allow it to continue.

"I understand," she said, hazarding an educated guess as to what he was going through. All she could do was guess.

* * *

Seamus O'Grady took a puff from his cigarette and spat onto the pavement. He watched as the foamy wad impacted the ground with a satisfying splash.

"Ye think yer safe from the likes of me," he said to the worn picture of the Angel formerly known as Helen Zaas he held in his hand. He kept it on him at all times, the opposite of a good luck charm. The edges were tattered and there were blood stains on the back, but it was his motivation. His reason for living, for staying alive, was to find her and kill her. Revenge. It was all he'd thought about when he was locked up, it was all he thought about when he was released, and it was all he'd thought about when he was recovering from his tumble off the roof. It helped to heal him, make him strong again. He'd acquired a fashionable walking stick to aide his movement, a dagger hidden in its hollow length. He didn't know about all that fancy flailing about that strange man in the pinstripes was doing up on the roof, but he liked the idea of having a similar weapon. To him, a dagger was much more practical than a sword, more straight and to the point. All you had to do was stab, and that was it.

"Ye think ye've bested me..." He took a long drag before flicking his cigarette to the ground and crushing it with the heel of his boot. He'd spent the last month or so healing from the fall, nursing broken bones and getting his body back into some semblance of normal shape, all while cleverly hiding from the authorities and rallying what was left of the O'Grady clan. It had been tough, but Seamus was nothing if not tough. Giving into death, to defeat, had never been an option for him. He'd been so close that night, so close, and if it weren't for that bastard in the suit, he would have succeeded. He wouldn't rest until that back-stabbing bitch was dead at his feet, her sweet blood staining his blade. He used it yet, and didn't plan to. He was saving it especially for her.

"Ye think ye've seen the last of Seamus O'Grady. Well, yer dead wrong."

* * *

She wanted him to join her, the other Angels, and Bosley for dinner. Said it would be "fun". At first he'd selfishly refused, completely unwilling to subject himself to that kind of awkward social interaction. But he could tell how much it meant to her. He'd heard how excitedly she'd planned it over the phone, earlier that day. He couldn't stand to see her so disappointed, especially not when he had the power to do something about it.

"Alright," he quickly penned on a notepad and handed it to her. She'd given it to him in the hopes that, when she had "important" questions that couldn't be answered by a simple yes or no, he would write down his responses to show her. So far, he'd written on about six of the pages.

She read it and looked up at him, her expression unsure, as though she were trying hard not to show her excitement.

"Does this mean you'll go?"

He nodded, looking down at the floor. She squealed and threw her arms around him, nearly knocking him backwards into the wall. He hesitantly brought his hands up to rest on her back in closed fists. He hadn't been expecting such an outburst, and even after nearly a month of intimacy, he was still unused to sudden physical contact. He tried to get his heart to stop pounding.

"Thank you," she said, tilting her golden head up to look at him. He felt obligated to offer her a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. He couldn't begin to express how apprehensive he was, how much he didn't want to do this. But he would do it, because she wanted him to. But that didn't mean he had to enjoy it.

* * *

Dylan could feel discomfort rolling off Anthony in waves. She was glad he'd agreed to come on her behalf, but wished he would just relax, and if not enjoy himself, at least stop making her worry. The restaraunt was crowded and fairly noisy, making Anthony jumpy and tense. She knew that present company didn't help at all. Breaking bread with people who hadn't exactly been on very friendly terms would have made anyone nervous. But she'd fought him before, gotten a few good kicks in, and look at them now. She had hope that they could all be friends, or at least put the past behind them so they could get along.

They all sat down at the table, candles flickering in red glass holders. They reminded Anthony of the votive candles in the chapel at the orphanage. The wick on the candle nearest to him was untrimmed and new. He ran his fingers through the high-leaping flame a few times before taking Dylan's lead and picking up his menu. While Dylan conversed with the others, Anthony hid silently behind his menu, grateful for the temporary sheild. His eyes scanned the words, not taking any of it in. They were just words. He knew most them, but he wasn't absorbing what they meant. Sweat beaded on his brow. He couldn't concentrate.

"What are you getting?" she asked quietly, leaning over so that she was behind Anthony's menu, as well. After a moment of tight-lipped concentration, he gingerly pointed to the filet mignon. Dylan smiled. "Good choice." He nodded and continued to stare forward at the list of entrees with feigned interest. When the waiter came to take their order, Dylan was prepared to order for Anthony, though she held a tiny glimmer of hope that he would speak. He ended up writing his choice on the notepad and holding it out for the waiter to see. She was glad when the waiter didn't ask questions or make comments. She wouldn't have expected any less from the waitstaff, for the price they were paying.

The girls chatted jovially as they waited, Dylan listening intently as Alex and Natalie caught her up on what they'd been doing over their extended vacation. Bosley threw in his two cents here and there, usually inciting a giggle from the girls. Anthony only stared uncomfortably down at the table, feeling unpleasantly exposed without his menu to hide behind. His azure eyes occassionally flicked upward across the table at the girls and Bosley. If eye contact was ever a threat, it was immediatley back to staring at the silverware, the bleached white table cloth, the flickering candles. During one such instance when his gaze was breifly upturned, his attention was irretrevably snared by Alex's hair, whose thick luster held him completely hypnotized in the dim candlelight. He felt a tremor of yearning begin to shake him, and he twisted his cloth napkin in his hands to keep himself from noticably trembling with desire. How easy it would be to just reach across the table and help himself to a lucious handful. He ground his teeth, aching to run his fingers through the silky black waves. It looked like it smelled wonderful.

Alex must have noticed the hungry stare he was giving her hair, because she pointedly tossed it over her shoulder and out of sight, giving him a look that said idon't even think about it/i. Somewhat debased, he reluctantly turned his watercolour eyes down to the table.

To make matters worse, they started discussing hair in great detail, as though they'd all seen how lustfully he'd stared at Alex's, and now they were mocking him, on purpose. As though he could help it. At least he'd been able to control himself. The possibility that the topic of discussion was pure coincidence was not entertained by Anthony, who had nearly succeeded in shredding the fabric of his napkin with his nails in his struggle to behave himself.

"Anthony," Natalie said laughingly, the name sounding foriegn from her lips. He looked up, trying not to appear too wary, as apprehensive as he was. It was the first time he'd been directly addressed in the conversation.

"Why didn't you ever try to take any of my hair? I feel sort of left out." She was smiling, her blue eyes twinkling merrily, but Anthony wasn't amused. He sat blushing, an odd, crooked smile plastered across his thin lips as he stared blankly down at his crystal glass of water. He found the idea of asking a silent man a question totally absurd. What exactly did she expect from him? What did any of them expect?

Of course, Dylan's falme-coloured hair was his favourite, with Alex's coming in at a close second. Natalie's hair was alright, nothing wrong with it, but it was rather short, straight and thin, and didn't really hold his interest. He'd never been very attracted to blondes, and even less, bleached blondes, which Natalie was guilty of. Of course, he wasn't about to explain that to her.

When their food came, the steak was a little overcooked for Anthony's liking, but he started sawing away it it with his knife and shovelling forkfulls of it into his mouth, anyway. He couldn't remember the last good chunk of meat he'd enjoyed. He was vaguely aware of the looks he was getting from the others, but he didn't care. Let them stare. He was hungry.

"Well, uh, Anthony," Bosley began tentatively, not sure if speaking to the ravenous young man was a good idea. He didn't seem to be very responsive, but the older man put it down to nervousness. "It's good to see that you have such a healthy appetite. Just don't get steak sauce all over my suit." He smiled broadly, cheesily. Anthony nodded his head once, but continued devouring his steak without ever looking up from his plate.

Anthony finished before everyone else, and once his food was gone, he commenced fidgiting nervously and staring blankly at the various inanimate objects scattered over the tabletop. Was it warm in the room? Likely, what with all the body heat and warm food. He tugged at his collar, wishing he could rip his tie off and unbutton his shirt to be less choking. He needed air. A cigarette. He needed to escape Alex's frigid stare. He knew in her shrewd mind that she was sizing him up mercilessly, tearing him apart, certain that he was not at all good for her friend. She wasn't so tactless as to come right out and say anything, though he did catch a few subtleties here and there, when she thought he wasn't paying attention to the conversation. But he was always paying attention. It was what he did best. And what he didn't hear, he could sense, see it in the way she narrowed her eyes each time she looked at him, the way she pursed her lips. He was fluent in body language, and hers was telling him to iget out/i. Likely, she was still sore at him from the attempt he'd made on her life which Knox had commanded. Not that he was at all sanguine about having to be in this sort of situation with girls who had veritably kicked his ass on more than one occassion, and likely did not feel any remorse for it. The dislike was mutual, at least.

His decision to leave was swift and without a second thought. He stood abruptly from the table, bumping it and nearly spilling his water as he did so. Dylan looked up at him inquisitively. He jerked his head towards the exit, gave a curt nod to the rest of them, and hurried towards the door, feeling the brunette's piercing eyes on his back like pinpricks.

"Excuse us," Dylan said apologetically, standing from her seat and following her troubled lover out the door.

"What is it?" Dylan asked once she'd caught up to him in the parking lot, concern evident in her voice. Anthony was already in the process of lighting a cigarette. He was obviously flustered and ill at ease. She didn't pretend not to know why, but she didn't think it was going all that terribly.

Once he'd completed the task of lighting up, he pulled out the notepad and pen, pursing his lips tightly around the cigarette as he scribbled furiously.

"They hate me," Dylan read aloud when Anthony held up the page for her to see before slipping it back into his pocket and began puffing away.

"They do not." Anthony nodded vigorously as she spoke, not seeming to be hearing Dylan as she argued. "They don't! Anthony, why would you think that?" Dylan wondered for a moment if he was going to write the answer down, but abandoned that hope when all he did was stand and smoke. She walked slowly over to him, but he backed away before she could reach him.

"What?"

He held out his hands in the 'stop' motion, staring at the black pavement beneath their feet.

"Anthony..."

He repeated the gesture more forcefully, his cigarette clenched firmly between his teeth. His eyes flicked up from the ground, imploring her to obey. He was obviously very upset, and he wasn't allowing Dylan to comfort him. She wished he would just talk to her about it. But no. He would just stand there, fuming, trembling with silent, unexpressed emotions. It was maddening. Despite her intense desire to stay with him, to help him, she knew that if he didn't want to be helped, there was nothing she could do. Besides, her friends would start to worry if she was gone for too long, and her dinner was getting cold.

"Fine."

She turned on her heel and left the parking lot, the heels of her boots clicking loudly on the pavement as she walked quickly towards the entrance of the restaurant. Anthony made a small noise in the back of his throat as he watched her go, but the protest was never fully expressed.

He exhaled sharply and clenched his fists in a silent tantrum. He couldn't go back in there. He'd tried to do what she wanted, but it was just too much to handle. He didn't think Dylan understood. She was a social being by nature, not to mention best friends with those people. The brunette's cold, calculating gaze and snippy remarks, the blonde's awkwardness and failed attempts at congeniality... Bosley was the tension breaker, always making jokes, but it didn't help him relax. Even Dylan's warm hand on his thigh wasn't enough to put him at ease. He didn't belong there with them. He wasn't an Angel. He wasn't part of the family.

He didn't know how far it was to Dylan's apartment, but he was going to find out. The hard way.

* * *

He knew he should have handled it differently, not been so vague. He was pretty sure she would be upset, frightened, angry, sad. His inexperience in matters of the heart was working against him. He didn't mean to hurt her. He didn't know how not to.

A note on the door which simply read:

_You asked me once why I was so silent. 'Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt,' is an answer I can give you, with borrowed words._

_-A_

He'd wanted to say more, but he'd never been good at using words as a medium for expression. He wasn't sure if he was going to come back. He wasn't sure of anything.

His heart screamed in protest as he slipped out the door, a silent shadow creeping as she lay sleeping, tangled in the sheets. He'd allowed himself a final prolonged look at her angelic face, her Cupid's bow lips, her shiny, round eyelids trimmed with thick dark lashes, her glowing complexion, her coppery hair fanned out across the pillow. She was already fast asleep by the time he'd made his way to her apartment, having walked the entire distance. He hadn't the heart wake her. Or the nerve.

He leaned over her, kissed her lips chastely, dripping a tear onto her cheek. Bidding their love good-bye. He heard the sombre strains of a requeim in his head.

He hated that this was how he thought things needed to be. He hated his inability to adapt. He hated that he fled at the first sign of conflict. He just hated himself so completely that the hatred left little room for any other emotion. Perhaps all he needed was a few days away from her, to make him realize that he truly couldn't live without her, that whatever he might be feeling was alright, and they could overcome it. Together. But now, he needed to be alone.

He wiped his eyes, straightened his spine, squared his shoulders and walked with haste to nowhere in particular, resigned to his decision.

* * *

Dylan rolled over. It was morning, but there was no sun. She looked blinking out the window, at the grey sky. She sighed and closed her eyes. She didn't like getting out of bed when it was gloomy. She'd just as soon stay in bed all day with Anthony, see if she could get to the bottom of what was bothering him, maybe evencheer him up a little.

Anthony? She called for him aloud, hearing nothing in response. She didn't expect a verbal response, but she didn't hear so much as a footstep, a floorboard creaking, nothing.

She untangled her limbs from the sheets and stood, shuffling in her stocking feet out to the livingroom. She called his name again, checking the bathroom and the fire escape, but he wasn't there. Then the piece of paper taped to the door just below the peephole caught her eye. She rushed toward it, reading it hurriedly, turning the quickly scrawled words over and over in her head. He'd left her. Just up and left. Didn't say why, didn't say if he was coming back, didn't say that he loved her. Or that he didn't.

"Well, this is just great," she said, crumpling the note in her fist and slumping down on the couch, the leather cold and sticky against her sweaty thighs. Had this been any other guy, she would have thought herself better to be rid of him. She hated non-confrontational men, always running from their problems, never willing to simply talk things through. Cowards. But Dylan somehow sensed that leaving had been a very difficult decision for Anthony. She hoped he intended to come back. So she could yell at him. She was angry at him for being so emotionless in his good-bye letter more than anyting. Quoting a dead president. "Thanks a lot."

She sniffled and looked down at the paper wadded in her hand. After some thought, she smoothed it, read it again, and decided not to throw it away. Words from him were precious, not something to be cast aside, no matter what they were. Her anger slowly melted into tender sadness. How could he just leave her like that? After all she'd done for him, after all they'd shared? Didn't it mean anything to him? Yes, she decided. _That's probaly why he felt like he had to leave; it was too much for him to handle._ She'd done the same sort of thing before, though she usually tended to leave a bit more of an explanation, an apology, something. Didn't she deserve that much? Maybe his vagueness was an indication that he intended to return, to explain. Maybe he'd just needed some time alone. Hopefully not too much time. She'd grown very attached to him, probably even loved him. Yeah, definitely. She was in pretty deep, and this...

She knew she was partly to blame for his sudden and unexplained disappearance. She was sorry she'd made him go out to dinner with the Angels. Well, she hadn't _made_ him, exactly, but she knew her girlish tendancy toward manipulation, however inadvertent it seemed. She wished she'd waited. It hadn't been the right time, what with him being so tense and distant as it was. And now he was gone. Frightened away.

She decided her best course of action was to cry, get that out of her system, then take a shower. She predicted that she would probably cry a bit more in the shower, then get dressed, call Natalie and Alex, and spend some time with her friends. She needed them, needed to be distracted. She hoped they would be free. She was reluctant to tell them what had happened, as she knew that at least Alex wasn't overly fond of Anthony. Natalie seemed pretty cool with him, but she could get along with anyone. She decided that she wasn't going to lie to them if he came up on conversation (which she knew was likely), but that she wouldn't mention him on her own. A reasonable compromise.

* * *

The autumn wind cut into Anthony's exposed skin like a sharp winter gust. He shivered miserably, huddling beneath a graffiti-riddled concrete bridge in an isolated part of the city. He hadn't thought of where he was going to go, only that he had to go. To be alone. This was where he found himself. A dank bridge, under a quiet road, over a churning river. It stank of stale urine. Cobwebs clung to the corners. He could hear rats scurrying about somewhere in the darkness, their sharp little claws scratching over the concrete. He'd left the warmth and comfort of her apartment for this. Spurned Heaven for Hell.

He hugged his knees tighter to his chest. The thin wool of his suit jacket wasn't enough to protect him against the harsh cold. He'd never really been bothered by the cold before, but that had been different. This cold felt as though it was freezing him from the inside.

He reached into his breast pocket with a trembling hand and pulled out his most prized possession; a lock of her hair. He lifted it to his face and breathed in what little of her scent still clung to it, silent tears sliding down his glacial cheeks. It was all he had left of her. All he could touch, all he could smell, was held tightly in his shaking hands, fluttering fragilely in the wind. And it was his fault.

"Hey there," a hoarse voice echoed in the cavernous space. Anthony hurriedly stuffed the lock of hair back in his pocket and turned his head sharply toward the direction the voice had come from. He drew himself further into the shadows, ready to attack at the first sign of a threat, his sorrow temporarily forgotten.

"Young man...now, what are you doin' under here?" In the dim light, Anthony could make out stooped figure dressed in layers of ragged clothing hobbling toward him, a crinkled brown bag in his hand. Harmless, clearly. Perhaps a bit annoying and offensive to his nostrils, but otherwise harmless.

Anthony, of course, remained silent, only huddling further into himself. He'd come there to be alone, and didn't appreciate his solitude being disturbed. He realized that it was likely he who was the intruder upon this man's "territory", but he could bring himself to care.

"Hey, that's a really nice suit you've got there. Would you happen to have any spare change? Help an old man out?"

_Out of what?_ Anthony thought sardonically. The man stunk to high heavans of liquor, and was obviously already pretty well saturated in whatever was contained in what the paper bag so poorly concealed. He shook his head, not lying. All he had on him was his dwindling pack of cigarettes, a book of matches taken from the restaurant, and the lock of Dylan's hair.

"Shame. You look pretty down, son. What's troubling you? Ah, don't tell me," he said, as though he'd actually expected him to try and answer. Anthony sighed and scooted further toward the edge of the concrete as the bum closed in without any regard for the younger man's personal space. His closeness made Anthony uncomfortable.

"It's a woman that's done this to you. I can tell," he said nodding, his eyes glowing yellow in the dim light. He took a swig from his bottle, nearly toppling over backwards with the effort he put into draining it.

"Damn, it's all gone. Never lasts long enough. Sure you don't have any money? You look like you could use a drink, yourself," he chuckled, nudging Anthony in the ribs, immediately causing him to tense up in preperation to lash out. He didn't appreciate uninvited physical contact, the closeness of the stranger. Anthony clenched his jaw and dug his nails into the backs of his arms in an effort to remain calm. This man had better watch himself.

The vagrant then went on to impart to Anthony the sad tale of how he'd given everything to his wife, and then when he'd lost his job, she'd left him, taking their kids with her, never to be seen or heard from, again. Anthony figured it wasn't so simple as all that, but kept his thoughts to himself.

"What happened with your girl? Another man? Money problems? Or no...you think you're not good enough for her."

Anthony's head snapped up, his icy eyes boring into the old man's dull ones. iHow does he know?/i he thought, a look of wonder and puzzlement on his pale face. Of course, there was more to it than that, but when it really came down to it...

He slowly nodded his head in agreement to the bum's surprisingly accurate statement, almost reluctant to give him the satisfaction.

"Haha, I knew it. But you're foolin' yourself, son. Young kid like you, sharp dresser, get any woman in the world."

_I don't want any woman...I just want her._

"You don't believe me, but it's true. You gotta get back to your lady."

As ridiculous as it seemed, the bum was right. He would have to go back. The pain was too intense without her. Anything that he felt, confusion, frustration, shame, was better than this. Why should he torture himself if he could avoid it? He only hoped she would take him back, forgive him for leaving so abruptly and without a proper explanation. Forgive his ignorance. Forgive his silence.

Anthony nodded, his eyes brimming with tears. He wanted not to cry in front of this total stranger, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He sniffed and closed his damp eyes against the cold wind, which had quieted to a breeze. He pictured himself back in the warmth of her embrace, telling himself he would be back with her, soon.

After a few moments of silence, he retreived the matches and crumpled pack of Marlboros from his pocket. He offered one to the bum, who accepted gratefully. Anthony lit his own first before handing the matches over to his companion. He let himself relax, no longer letting the cold tear him viciously apart. He was going to go back to her, get over himself, make an effort. He knew now that he needed her, didn't want to live without her.

When he'd finished his cigarette, he stood, his shoulders hunched under the low ceiling of the bridge. He nodded to the bum, who was still coaxing the last few pungent puffs from his cigarette.

"You take care, son. Tell your woman 'hello' for me."

Anthony nodded and allowed himself a small smile. He was feeling significantly better. Still uneasy, not entirely confident, but he had to at least try. He would be a coward if he didn't. To hell with what the other Angels thought of him. They didn't matter, she did.

* * *

Dylan was vegging on her couch after a long day of shopping with the girls. She was watching a movie and trying not to think about Anthony, but it wasn't working very well. She expected him to walk through the door at any minute. Come over and slide onto the couch beside her, where she would find comfort in his strong arms if the movie was sad, or where she could delight in the rare occurance of him smiling if the movie was funny. But he never came. _Give him time_, she thought, though she knew that getting her hopes up that he would return wasn't a good idea. Still, she had a feeling, and she was taught from an early age to go with her feelings. Sometimes she was right, sometimes she wasn't, but no matter what the outcome, she was always true to herself.

Like then, for example, she had a feeling that she wasn't exactly alone. She'd done a breif search of the apartment as soon as she'd walked in, hoping to find Anthony, but there was no sign of anyone. She settled back into the couch cushions and tried to shake the feeling. She was probably just paranoid because she'd grown accustomed to not being alone. She felt safe with Anthony. Protected. Not like she couldn't hold her own in a fight, but as much as she hated to admit it, it was nice having a strong man around.

Dylan kept her eyes glued to the glowing screen in front of her, forcing herself to concentrate on the movie, the characters and their problems, rather than her own, real ones. She remained oblivious to the three pairs of eyes looking in at her from the roof across the alley.

To be continued...


End file.
